


in this rush

by abovetheruins, vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Collaboration, M/M, Manila Concert 2009
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4826018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The law of gravity seems to dictate that they must fall into each other.</p><p>So tonight: they fall together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in this rush

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from David Cook's "Avalanche"; premise based on [this unforgettable duet in Manila.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D4uLj4p7BLY)
> 
> This story was borne out of a collaboration initially posted on Tumblr, and grew into something special--and something deeply cherished by both authors.
> 
> David Archuleta's POV: written by vindicatedtruth  
> David Cook's POV: written by abovetheruins

_"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the stage, David Archuleta!"_

Archie is the only one who hears the crack in Cook’s voice as he calls him back to join him.  So Archie gives his biggest smile to Cook, because Cook needs him to.  And for Cook, Archie will always give the best of himself… even when it’s not good enough.

Even when it’s not _nearly_ enough.

As Cook sings the outro, Archie weaves his own soaring adlib notes into the heartrending hymn, and makes sure his voice is heard… all the way up into the heavens.

 _I’m sorry,_ he’s praying to the soul that he knows—he just _knows_ —is watching over them right now.   _I’m sorry that this is the only thing I can do for him.  I wish I can take all his pain away, I wish I can bring you back, I wish I can give up my life in exchange for yours—_

And this time it’s Archie who has to drop the mic for a while as his throat threatens to close, and his vision of the audience blurs.  He takes a deep breath, gathers the last of his strength and his courage, and raises his arm to sway it into the air in time with the cadence of Cook’s voice.

He watches as Cook pours his heart and soul into _A Daily AntheM_ —his voice hoarse and raw, his face naked and vulnerable, his hands shaking as he grips the mic as if it’s the only buoy keeping him from drowning into the depths of his grief—and it makes Archie determinedly raise his own mic and offer his voice one more time.

 _Manila,_ Archie prays as this time, he melds his voice along with Cook’s, seamlessly blending their notes until their voices sing to the heavens as one.  _Please let him know that he’s not alone._

_Please let him know that he’s loved._

_That he will_ always _be loved._

“One more time,” Cook rasps, his final plea to the crowd: “Keep those hands up.”

The band comes to a full stop, and both Cook and Archie drop their mics to let the voice of Manila take over. Cook tries to keep his arm in the air, but eventually it seems that the last of his strength is finally drained, and his knees give way as he falls into a crouch on the stage.  

So it’s Archie who keeps his hand in the air, even as his shoulders feel heavy with the weight of what he wants to give Cook but _can’t_ , because as much as he wants to save Cook, the only person who can is _gone_ , taken away too soon—too good for this world, even as he is deeply beloved by his little brother.

Cook’s hand clenches around his heart, as if he can’t hold it all in anymore, and Archie wants to run to him, wants to wrap him in his arms and tell him, _give it to me, give it_ all _to me, give me your pain and I’ll carry it for you._

But he doesn’t.  He has to keep singing—he has to keep _Manila_ singing—for Cook… and for Adam.

For everything they had… and everything they now lost.

Finally, Cook gathers enough strength to stand and give a wavering smile as he says:  “Manila! _Salamat po_!”

And he never forgets to turn to Archie and remind the crowd: “David Archuleta, everybody!”

He meets Cook halfway across the stage and he _does_ finally wrap his arms around him, and Cook doesn’t know what it means, this simple action of _holding_ him:

_I love you, and I’m sorry that I never told you.  I’m sorry that you never knew, and I’m sorry that you will never know._

_I love you, and I’m sorry that I’m not good enough.  Because you deserve better.  Because you deserve someone who can keep believing in God, because I can’t believe in Him right now, because I can’t believe in a God who allows a good man like you to suffer like this.  Because you don’t deserve this.  And I wish I can give you what you deserve._

_I wish I can be the one to give you that, and I’m sorry that I can’t._

_I’m sorry because… despite knowing all of that… I still love you._

_And I always will._

But then Cook steps back and lets go, and to Archie it feels like cutting off a _limb._

He watches as Cook holds onto the mic one last time and bows his head—as if in prayer—and walks away from Archie.

The action makes Archie feel small and insignificant, powerless in the magnitude of the despair that has trapped Cook in its unrelenting clutches, taking him further and further away, and he dejectedly follows with a heavy heart—

Until Cook suddenly stops and turns around to look back at him, and Archie is caught off guard when Cook slings an arm around him and simply _holds on._

And Archie hates himself for it, but he can’t fight the surge of bittersweet hope that flares from his heart and chokes him, and he is unable to speak as Cook smiles softly at him, the tenderness in his gaze making Archie _ache_ with longing.  

_I’m not good enough for you.  But someday, perhaps… I will be._

_Until then… I’ll keep trying.  For you, David._

_Always, always… for you._

Archie closes his eyes, and smiles.

_… Thank you, Manila._

 

 

Exhaustion weighs heavily on Cook’s shoulders that night, tinged with the grief that’s been his constant companion for months now. The heady adrenaline which had fueled him through the concert has leached away into a steady, throbbing hum beneath his skin. Try as he might, sleep hovers tantalizingly out of his reach.

He relives the last few moments of the show, the emotionally draining performance topped off by the wall of sound that had been 40,000 people singing his name at the top of their lungs. It had driven him, sweating and shaking, to his knees, and he remembers pressing a kiss to his trembling fingertips and throwing it towards the dark Manila skyline, overcome with such a rush of love and loss and _gratitude_ , so fucking thankful that he could share this song and that so many people were singing the words back at him.

Tears sting his eyes, sharp and familiar, and he rubs them roughly away. He wishes, suddenly, that he weren’t so alone.

Wishes Archie were there, actually. He’d been Cook’s pillar during that final performance, a line of strength at his side during the anthemic chant at the end, his gorgeous voice soaring over the crowd and twining effortlessly with Cook’s. Archie had been such a stalwart support through everything, a constant source of warmth and comfort and friendship, and Cook wonders if the younger man knows just how grateful he is for that, wonders if Archie knows Cook couldn’t have gotten through this night without him.

There had been something off about Archie, though, after the show, after they had left the stage together with Cook’s arm wrapped warmly around his shoulder. They had both been pretty emotional, their eyes red-rimmed and wet, but Cook had felt a tension in Archie’s shoulders that he didn’t think had anything to do with the concert or that last emotionally charged performance. It had almost felt like… like he was holding something back, though what that something was, Cook had no idea.

He breathes out slowly, glancing at the bedside clock. It’s well after two in the morning; surely Archie is asleep?

He reaches for his cell anyway, firing off a quick text: _Hey, you awake?_

It takes a few minutes before he receives a response, and something in his chest unfurls as Archie’s name pops up in his inbox. _Yeah. Can’t sleep._

 _Come over?_ Cook hits send before he can second guess himself. He feels a little off-kilter suddenly, nervous, though he doesn’t know why. It’s just Archie. They’ve hung out a million times, spent more than a few nights camped out in one another’s rooms, especially during Idol, when they were too wired to sleep or too hopped up on adrenaline following a performance night.

Archie doesn’t text him back, but a few minutes later there’s a tentative knock on Cook’s door, and he grins, throwing back the covers. Archie’s got his arms wrapped around a pillow, dressed in a t-shirt and sleep pants, and Cook’s heart sort of melts at the sight of him, looking small and exhausted in Cook’s doorway.

“Come on in,” he says, his voice a little rough. He grabs for one of the shirts thrown over the sofa, feeling a little exposed in nothing but his boxers, and settles next to Archie on the rumpled bed after he slips it on.

“You couldn’t sleep either, huh?” Archie asks him, his back pressed against the headboard, arms still loosely wrapped around his pillow. His eyes are a little red-rimmed still, and he looks as exhausted as Cook feels.

“Nah.” Cook copies his pose, their shoulders touching, and he doesn’t think he imagines Archie’s tiny flinch as their skin brushes. He frowns. “Hey. Is everything okay?”

Archie glances at him quickly, brows furrowed, averting his eyes when they catch Cook’s gaze. “Yeah, um. Everything’s – everything’s good.”

Cook nudges his shoulder. “You’re not a very good liar, Arch.”

Unbidden, Archie’s lips twitch. “Are you quoting my song at me?” he asks, and though he’s clearly deflecting from the conversation at hand, Cook doesn’t call him on it.

“C’mon, Arch. You can tell me anything. You know that.”

Arch looks down, arms tightening around his pillow, and Cook hates the tight, pinched look on his face. He tries another tactic.

“I never told you how much that meant to me, what you did back there,” he says.

Archie glances up. “What I did?”

“Yeah. You were – you were kind of the only thing keeping me going out there, you know? During that last song.” He doesn’t have to mention which one.

Archie’s eyes widen. “You don’t have to – I wanted to be out there, supporting you. I – “ He trails off, chewing at his lower lip, and his voice is infinitely softer when he speaks again. “I’ll always support you, Cook. Whenever you need me.”

Unbidden (but predictable, as they always are whenever Archie’s concerned) the tears spring to Cook’s eyes. He smiles around the lump in his throat, throwing an arm around Archie’s shoulder and pressing his chin to the crown of the boy’s dark hair.

“Same here, Archie,” he says, voice rough, unable to resist pressing a quick, dry kiss to Archie’s curls. “You know that, right? Whenever you need me. Whatever you need. I’d give it to you, if I could.”

He feels more than sees Archie’s shaky exhale, and his heart jumps as the younger man’s fingers curl in his t-shirt. “I know, Cook,” Archie whispers, and Cook wonders if he’s imagining the emotion behind those words, the suddenly thick atmosphere building between them. “I know.”

 

 

 _It’s so easy_ , Archie suddenly realises, _to take advantage of Cook like this_.

He feels the kiss Cook bestows (and unsuccessfully tries to hide) in his hair, and he’s quite certain that the other man feels the way he shudders with it, his body responding in ways he knows aren’t entirely innocent.  It’s so easy to ask Cook for what he wants… because he knows that Cook will give it to him. 

After all, his traitorous mind reminds him, he’s not a minor anymore.  For almost half a year now, in fact.  And whatever he does from this point on will not be illegal anymore.

Surrounded by Cook’s weight, his warmth, his _scent…_ God help him, the temptation is _strong._

Archie squeezes his eyes shut and fists Cook’s shirt to try and compose himself.  

 _“_ Arch?” he hears Cook ask, uncharacteristically timid.

And it’s that hesitant tone of voice that makes it all crash back on Archie: the vulnerability of Cook’s emotional state, how Cook will very much likely respond to the closest source of comfort, and how it will be because of proximity, and _neediness_ , and because Cook will feel like he _owes_ Archie this, and that—

That is what Archie can’t stomach. 

Gently, so as to not startle Cook, he pulls back from the older man’s makeshift embrace.  He looks up to see Cook blinking confusedly at him, and it tugs at Archie’s mouth—and his heartstrings—to see this strange turning of the tables: usually, it’s _him_ who perpetually has that deer-in-the-headlights expression, and usually it’s _him_ whom people want to protect from being taken advantage of.

How ironic that it’s _Cook_ he has to protect this time… from _himself_.

“You’re smiling,” Cook observes with a tilt of his head.  “Why are you smiling?”

There are many ways Archie can answer that question _,_ but for Cook, he will always give the truest one:

“Because I’m happy.”

Cook visibly brightens, his mood instantly lifting.  “Really?”

 _It’s so easy,_ Archie thinks with a bittersweet pang beneath his breastbone, _to make him happy.  I wish I can do that all the time._

“Really,” Archie confirms as he scoots back up against the headboard, untangling himself from Cook and moving a few safe inches away.  “I should be the one thanking you.”

Cook frowns as he glances down briefly at the space between them.  “For what?”

Archie stares at him incredulously. “Gosh, Cook, for _everything_.”

At that, Cook laughs.  “ _Everything_ is a little too much, Arch, don’t you think?  I’m not that omnipotent.”

“ _Omni_ —you’ve been doing the crosswords again, haven’t you?”

Cook grins.  “You know me too well.”

 _Thank God you don’t know me well enough_ , Archie thinks.  “It’s just… I feel like an ungrateful friend for not saying this before, but…” Archie takes a deep breath.  “I want to thank you for allowing me to be here.  With.  Um.  With you.”

Cook’s mouth quirks.  “In my bed?”

Archie hopes Cook doesn’t see how his ears reddened at that.  “No!  I mean,  yes?  Partly? I—I mean—”  Archie spreads his hands out,  “ _Here,_ in Manila.  Thank you for bringing me with you.”

The humour fades from Cook’s features and is replaced by one that is soft and curious.  “What do you mean?”

Archie folds his legs beneath him and props his chin on his pillow as he looks at Cook.  “I know that this, um, concert?  Was supposed to be a solo thing for you.  Last January, wasn’t it?”  Archie clutches the pillow self-consciously.  “I don’t know whose idea was it to, whatever, _include_ me, when this was supposed to be _your thing,_ and I didn’t want to _intrude,_ and—and I was scared that you might think that I’m t-taking advantage of your generosity when you, like, deserve to have all of _this_ to yourself, especially after everything you’ve been through—”

“ _Whoa_ , slow down Arch, _what—_ ”

“But you’ve been so nice about it, and—and _understanding_ , and this has totally become one of the most amazing experiences of my life, and—”

Archie pauses to catch his breath, aware that he’s began rambling again.   _Can I be any more of a kid in Cook’s eyes?_ Archie thinks miserably.

“The point is… I know that I didn’t have to be here, but I am.” Archie finally says.  “So… thank you, Cook.  For letting me.”

Cook is now staring funnily at him. “Archie,” says the other man slowly.  “It was me.”

“…What?”

“It was _me,_ Arch,” Cook repeats, a small smile playing on his lips.  “ _I_ was the one who decided to move the concert, so you could come with me.”

Archie can’t believe what he’s hearing. “ _What_?”  

“I asked your manager if you were available, but because _you were so in demand_ ,” Cook teases, “I found out you weren’t free until May.  So I talked to my manager about it, and then I talked to the guys, and then finally we all had a long meeting with the organisers here in Manila—”

Archie is aware that his eyes are probably bulging out of their sockets comically at this revelation, and Cook can’t help but chuckle at his flabbergasted expression.  “I gotta tell you, Arch, it took a lot of hemming and hawing and a ridiculous amount of red tape to weave through, but eventually they all gave in.”

Cook’s gaze catches his, and Archie inhales sharply at the unmasked affection Cook is openly showing.

“The point is,” Cook says softly, “I know that you didn’t have to be here, but you are.  So… thank you, Arch.  For coming.”

Something bright and warm and hopeful blossoms in Archie’s chest at the way Cook mirrors his own words back at him. Archie shakes his head, unwilling to succumb to the sensation.  “Why…” he swallows, “Why would you do that?”

Cook gives a start at the question, as if Archie has unexpectedly _hit_ him.  His eyes flare with something akin to pain before he looks away, his expression suddenly guarded and shuttered.  

“…Cook?” Archie asks in alarm, unsure of what he said or did wrong.

Cook squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.  He takes a deep, watery breath before he finally answers:

“Because my brother just died, and I didn’t want to be alone.”

Archie stares at him—at the way Cook’s hands clenched into fists, bunching the sheets as he grips them tightly; at the way Cook’ shoulders heaved at the reminder of the battle he lost, after fighting for so long; at the way Cook very determinedly looks out the window, unwilling to let his tears fall in front of his friend—and Archie sets aside his pillow on the bed and thinks:

 _Hang it all_.

Archie feels more than hears Cook’s surprised intake of breath as he covers the other man’s body with his own. He wraps his arms tightly around Cook’s torso, buries his face at the crook of Cook’s neck and shoulder, and whispers fiercely against Cook’s skin:

“You’ll never be alone.  Not if I can help it.”

 

 

Cook stares at the window, eyes wide and wet, feeling the warmth of Archie’s chest pressed against his side, Arch’s arms wrapped around him, his breath against Cook’s neck.

Arch is breathing shallowly, almost like he’s scared, and Cook… yeah, Cook can relate.

They’ve always been close, damn near inseparable during those last hectic months of _Idol_ and throughout the tour afterward. Cook feels like he knows Archie, damn near inside and out; he feels like Archie knows _him_.

People thought it was sweet during the show, that Cook had apparently taken Archie under his wing; they called him a good friend, a good mentor, a good brother, but it had never felt right, never sounded right, the way people made out the bond he and Archie shared to be something familial, brotherly.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love Arch like that, like a brother, like _family_ , because he did. Of course he did. But there had always been something… more, an added dimension to their relationship that Cook had never really understood, never really questioned, partly because he wasn’t sure what conclusions he’d come to if he thought about it too hard, and partly because Arch was still so _young_ , just seventeen and still so new to, well, everything.

But now – god, Cook would be an idiot not to notice how much Archie has grown, how strong he’s become in the intervening months since the last time they’d seen each other. Hell, he’s the one holding Cook together now, his arms strong and sure, _taking care_ of Cook, and it’s – it’s nice. It feels good to be taken care of, to not have to be the strong one, to succumb to his grief and his sadness while being absolutely certain that Archie won’t judge him for it, won’t shrink from it, will _welcome_ it.

 _Fuck_. Cook drops his head, his nose brushing against Archie’s cheek, and turns in the younger man’s embrace so he can wrap his arms around Arch’s shoulders. His forehead settles on Archie’s collarbone, his eyes slipping closed as he just folds into the hug, and he breathes out shallowly as he allows his tears to fall.

Archie makes a soft noise against his ear, his hands running up and down Cook’s back in long, soothing strokes, and, after a moment, begins to hum.

Cook huffs out a watery breath, feeling Archie’s chest expand and contract as he breathes, the vibration of his voice as he continues to hum; it’s soothing, _good_ , being surrounded like this, embraced like this. Arch is warm, his t-shirt soft against Cook’s skin, and he smells like deodorant and hotel soap and something else, something distinctly Archie.

Cook’s heart warms, even as the tears continue to flow sluggishly from his eyes. He’s so glad – so fucking grateful, once again – that Archie is the one here with him, the one offering comfort. Cook needed this, needed _him_ , and, in a moment of clarity which sends him reeling, he realizes that he always has.

God, he’s an idiot. He nearly laughs aloud – at himself – but manages to hold it in at the last moment, tightening his grip around Archie instead. Arch croons a soft note, like he thinks Cook is upset and needs to be soothed again, while all Cook can do is hide his face against the soft fabric of Archie’s shirt and berate himself for being so fucking blind, so fucking oblivious.

He’s always felt close to Archie; they have a bond, a connection, and it’s never wavered, only grown. He _loves_ Archie, and he’s made that abundantly clear to just about anyone who will listen.

But there’s always been more to it, at least for him. The affection that fills him whenever Arch laughs, the way satisfaction curls hotly in his chest whenever Archie settles against his side or initiates contact, never flinching from Cook’s touch, the way it stings whenever Archie tries to hide things from him, withdraw back into his shell when something’s on his mind, like earlier, when he’d tried to thank Cook – actually _thank_ him, what the fuck – for letting him come to Manila with him…

Christ, he has a _crush_ on David Archuleta.

He must make a sound – he’s not sure what, as his head is suddenly awash with what feels like static – because Archie leans back, bending down to get a look at his face.

“Cook?” he asks, brows furrowed. “Did you say something?” His face is so close, his eyes huge and hazel, lips parted slightly as he waits for Cook’s response, and something in Cook’s chest _squeezes_ hard at the sight, so full of affection and happiness and _fear_ that it leaves him gaping.

“Arch… “ he tries, his voice raspy with emotion. He clears his throat, leaning back a little (but preserving their connection, because he’s weak, and Archie’s warmth is kind of addicting, so sue him).

Arch tilts his head. “Yeah? What’s – what’s wrong?”

Cook shakes his head, laughing a little – mostly at himself, at the giddy rush of feeling that has suddenly overtaken him and doesn’t seem to be showing any signs of abating, at least not while he’s in Archie’s presence – and letting out a breath.

“Nothing’s wrong, Arch. Not really.”

“Um, okay. You just look like – “ Archie shrugs, a little helplessly “ – like something’s on your mind.”

Cook coughs, fighting the urge to look away. “Yeah, I – “ He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s trying to say, what he can say, and in a moment of desperation he switches gears. “Is there something on _your_ mind, Arch?”

Archie looks a little taken aback. “I – huh? Why would you ask me that?”

Cook recalls his earlier thoughts, before Arch had come over, remembers thinking that something must have been on his mind during the show. “It’s just – you’ve looked a little off, since the concert. Like something’s bothering you.”

Archie shrinks away, just a little. Cook reflexively tightens his grip, desperate suddenly, because damn it, he doesn’t want Arch to pull away again.

“Cook, please – “

“Archie, whatever it is, it’s okay.” He untangles his hands from Archie’s shoulders, curling them around the younger man’s cheeks instead so he can catch Arch’s eyes. “Hey, listen. It’s _okay_.”

“No, it’s not.” Archie’s shaking his head, visibly upset now, and Cook hates himself for putting that look on his friend’s face.

“Archie,” he tries, “whatever it is, I’m not going to think any differently about you. I love you.” The words ring loud and true in his heart, to an extent that they never have before, and Christ, he is in so much trouble. “You know that, right?”

The words, usually enough to bring out a sweet smile or a gentle laugh from Archie, only seems to make him even more upset.

“It’s not – “ he rasps, his hands clenching and unclenching in Cook’s t-shirt, like he doesn’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away.

Cook rubs his thumb along the sweep of Archie’s cheekbone, gentling his voice as he asks, “It’s not what, Archie?”

Archie’s eyes fall closed, his shoulders slumping. Against Cook’s chest, his fingers slacken. He looks utterly defeated.

“It’s not the same way that I love you,” he says.

 

 

It feels like finally leaping off the precipice he has skirted around for so long, and Archie remembers the words of Cook’s own song: _I can’t remember ever falling this hard._

Warm, guitar-callused hands cradle his cheeks to gently tilt his face up, and Archie helplessly follows.  He opens his eyes to gaze into the deepest shade of blue he has ever seen—the color of Manila’s twilight sky, Archie remembers, right before it rained that evening. 

“Then tell me,” Cook’s voice is rough, but tender:  “How do you love me?”

Faced with the question, Archie doesn’t know how to answer.  He thinks he’ll only stumble over the words, and for several heartbeats Archie considers not answering at all, if only because he thinks that any answer he gives can never be adequate—or accurate.

But there is something heartrendingly _fragile_ about the way Cook is looking at him now, and Archie can never forgive himself if Cook _breaks_ because of him.  

He thinks about the answer Cook wants to know—the answer Cook _deserves_ to know—and decides that the only way he can give the closest approximation to the truth of his heart… is through his native tongue.

“ _No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio.”_ The fingers clutching Cook’s shirt spread to encompass his chest, and Archie feels the steady thrum of Cook’s heart beneath his hands.  “ _O flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego._ ”

“Arch—” Cook’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, and the sight makes Archie smile.  He reaches both hands up to run a thumb on each of the wrinkled brows to smoothen them soothingly.

“ _Te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras…”_

His hands travel slowly downward to loosely grip Cook’s shoulders as Archie leans forward to whisper in his ear:  “ _Secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.”_

He feels Cook shiver, and he tucks his head against Cook’s neck as his lips brush at Cook’s pulse point when he speaks.  “ _Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva.”_  His hands move to caress Cook’s arms, the strong muscles bunching at his touch.  “ _Dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores.”_

Carefully, he pulls back to look at Cook’s face, and he sees that Cook’s eyes had fallen close. When Cook feels him moving, his eyes flutter open—and Archie’s breath catches at the way his pupils dilate as Cook drinks him in, the skyline of his eyes narrowing to nothing but an outline against the heat of his gaze.

“ _Y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo.”_ Archie’s own voice is trembling now, and he pushes at Cook’s chest—gently, but firmly—to get him to lie back against the bed.   _“El apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.”_

Cook watches him intently, never tearing his gaze away, but he doesn’t speak this time—doesn’t question Archie on what he’s doing, on what _they’re_ doing _—_ and Archie feels his heart swelling at how much Cook trusts him.  

“ _Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde…_ ”

Archie is shaking at his own boldness as he swings his leg over Cook’s waist, effectively straddling him.  Cook’s hands move to Archie’s hips, and Archie draws strength from Cook’s steadying hold as he loosely grips Cook’s neck.  His thumbs trace Cook’s defined jawline, and it is strangely intimate to feel Cook’s unexpectedly soft beard beneath his fingers, goosebumps traveling up and down Archie’s arms at the sensation.  

“ _Te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo…”_

His hands move to brace himself on the pillow beneath Cook’s head, and he sees Cook’s eyes widen as he leans his forehead against him.  Their noses brush, their breaths mingle hotly, and he looks straight into Cook’s eyes as he speaks—terrified, but determined—because this…

(One of Archie’s hands move to cup Cook’s cheek with all the tenderness he can muster, telling Cook without words: _You are cherished, you are beloved, you are mine._ ) 

…  _This_ is the truth of Archie’s heart: 

“ _Así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera—”_

And Archie feels _weak_ , suddenly, at the way he finally allows all the unbridled longing to pour forth into his words, and his arms suddenly buckle from the weight of it all. He falls against Cook’s chest, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he simply holds on and _breathes._  

“… _Sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres.”_

His fingers curl bonelessly against Cook’s shirt as he turns his head.  He hears Cook’s heart beneath his ear, and he can’t help but smile at how it beats in time with his own.

“David,” Cook finally speaks, and there is something _different_ now, something about the way the other man says _their_ name: there is affection there, as well as contentment, but there is also an undercurrent of something darker—something primitive and proprietary.  “ _David,_ ” Cook says again, and Archie shivers.

“Pablo Neruda,” Archie murmurs against Cook’s chest.  “Sonnet number seventeen.  You can look it up tomorrow.”

Cook stills for a moment, before Archie feels the vibrations against his body as Cook chuckles. “Tomorrow, huh?” Cook’s familiar baritone rumbles against his ear, and he feels Cook’s hand move up to stroke his hair.  “I can’t look it up tonight?”

Archie shakes his head vehemently, and Cook laughs softly.  “Why not?” he asks.

 _Because I want to put off the inevitable for a little longer,_ Archie doesn’t say.   _Because tomorrow, everything will change.  Tomorrow, I might lose you.  So let me have tonight.  Let me have this._

His arms tighten around Cook.

 _Just for tonight… let me have_ you.

“Because I want to stay here,” is the answer he gives, because it’s the truest answer he can offer at the moment.  He lifts his head, suddenly unsure of his welcome, and timidly asks:  “…Can I stay?”

Cook looks at him then, and Archie watches Cook visibly soften at the sight of him, and _oh_ what Archie wouldn’t do to have Cook keep looking at him like that forever.

In response, Cook manoeuvres them so that they’re now both lying on their side, facing each other. Archie finds his head pillowed on one of Cook’s arms, and Cook rests his other hand on the small of Archie’s back. Cook throws one leg over Archie’s hip while the other one is tangled in between Archie’s legs, and finally, Cook tucks Archie’s head underneath his chin.

Oddly enough, they fit together _perfectly_ like this.

“Stay,” Cook murmurs, his breath ruffling Archie’s hair.  “ _Please.”_

Archie nods minutely and smiles, knowing that Cook can feel the curve of Archie’s mouth against his throat.  Cocooned in Cook’s embrace like this, Archie feels utterly safe and cared for and… _loved_ , he’d like to think.

Cook sighs contentedly, and Archie feels Cook relax for the first time that evening.  He waits until Cook’s breathing evens out deeply into sleep, his whole body melting around Archie, before he at last allows himself to whisper the final lines of the poem:

“ _Tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía…”_

Archie presses his hand against Cook’s heart, and finally succumbs to the call of slumber.

“… _Tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.”_

Cook carefully powers down his phone and slides it onto the bedside table, moving in tiny increments so as not to wake his dark-haired bedmate. Archie’s curled against his side, their legs tangled together, one arm thrown across Cook’s waist and the other buried beneath the pillow they’d shared throughout the night.

Cook had woken barely half an hour ago to the sight of Archie’s face a short distance from his own, lashes dark against his cheeks and lips parted as he drew in breath. That sight, coupled with the rush of memory from the night before, had set his heart to pounding as he recalled Archie’s raspy, lilting voice crooning into his ear. The words had been unfamiliar, but the feelings they evoked, the rush of heat that they sent skittering down Cook’s spine – that, he was familiar with.

God, the way Archie had moved against him, pressing Cook into the mattress while he murmured the soft Spanish words, touching Cook with a gentleness, a tenderness that left him feeling weak, left him feeling _cherished_ – it had felt like… like they were taking the last tenuous step towards something new, something enormous, something inevitable.

They had been so _close_ last night, sharing space, sharing breath, and Cook had seen a whole new array of emotion in Archie’s eyes as the younger man touched him, soothed him, asked Cook if he could _stay_. There had been affection, yes, and a longing that drew forth such a primal response in Cook that he’d been breathless and quaking in its thrall, but beneath that, there had been _fear_.

It’s fear, he thinks, that had stopped Archie from letting Cook look up the poem. It’s fear that had led him to speak the words in his native tongue in the first place. He’d been afraid of how Cook would take it, as if the language of his body hadn’t already told Cook everything he’d needed to know.

Archie _loves_ him, of that Cook is sure. Not just as a brother, or a friend, or family, but something monumentally deeper. It makes Cook’s breath catch in his chest to even think about the depth of Archie’s affection for him, makes him wonder, breathlessly, how he could possibly deserve it.

Archie stirs, making a soft sound as he wakes, his lashes parting to reveal sleepy hazel eyes, and Cook’s heart fills with so much muddled affection and longing that he can’t even stop himself from curling his fingers into Arch’s dark hair, slipping down to cup the back of his neck as Archie glances up at him.

“Cook?” he murmurs, voice sleep-hoarse and even raspier than usual. Cook imagines more mornings like this one, waking up to this warmth, to Arch’s bedhead and sleepy eyes and their limbs tangled together, and he grins, fierce and bright.

“Morning,” he says, soft like they’re sharing a secret, and Archie’s responding smile cements his resolve to take the next step. He tilts his head so that he can touch his brow to Archie’s, and adds, “I looked up the sonnet.”

Archie’s eyes widen by a fraction; Cook feels his neck tense up beneath the heat of his palm. “I – Cook, I – “

“Shh.” Cook moves closer, curls his leg over Archie’s, and presses a lingering kiss to Arch’s furrowed brow.

“Cook…?” Archie’s voice is softer, his eyes shining with a mix of confusion and quiet hope, and Cook feels giddy with the rush of want that fills him at the sight.

“Archie.” They’re so close they’re practically sharing breath, chests touching, and Cook curls his free hand over Archie’s heart, feeling its rapid beat beneath his palm. “Don’t be afraid, okay? Not of me.” He taps his fingertips over Archie’s chest, lips tilting into a smile. “Or of this.”

Archie stares at him, not saying a word. Cook sees him swallow, sees his adam’s apple bob with the movement, and he curls his fingers into Archie’s soft t-shirt, waiting. It’s up to Archie to take this further, if he wants to. Cook won’t push him.

“You don’t – “ Archie starts, gaze darting away from Cook’s face to the space – the lack of space – between them. “You don’t have to do – to do anything you don’t want to. If you’re just trying to make me happy – “

Cook shrugs his shoulder. “Making you happy makes me happy,” he says simply, grinning at Archie’s exasperated look. “And whatever you’re thinking in that head of yours, Archuleta, don’t.”

Archie glances up at him, chewing on his lower lip. “I don’t want to take advantage of you,” he says finally, quietly.

“Damn right you don’t,” Cook teases. “We may be in bed together before we’ve even gone out on a first date, Arch, but I’m not easy.”

Archie shakes his head, not allowing himself to be soothed by Cook’s playful teasing. “Cook, I’m serious, I don’t – “

“Archie, listen to me,” Cook interrupts, all hints of humor gone from his voice, though it’s no less gentle for the loss. “I want this, okay? Not because I’m grieving, not because I’m looking for comfort, not for any of the reasons that you’ve probably been agonizing over. I want this. I – I think I have for a while, if we’re being honest.”

He feels Archie’s hand tighten in his shirt. “And… and what is _this_?” he asks softly.

Cook smiles, burying his fingers into the short hair at Archie’s nape and relishing in the full-body shudder that shakes the younger man’s frame.

“ _You_ , Archie,” he says, inflecting all of his surety into the words, so that Archie can be sure that he means every one. “I want you, Archie.”

And when he tilts his head to breach the distance between them, parted lips a scant inch from Archie’s own, it’s with a burst of desire and tremulous hope that he asks Archie, “What about you?”

 

 

 _If falling this hard means falling from grace,_ is Archie’s last coherent thought, dark and determined: _then so be it._

Kissing David Cook is _nothing at all_ like Archie has imagined. The physical sensations it awakens in him are all sinfully familiar: the heat pooling in his stomach, the tightening of his groin, the zing of arousal flaring from the base of his spine and blazing through the rest of his body, sparking every single neuron to life.

What he _hasn’t_ expected, however, is the ebullient joy that bursts forth from his chest to engulf his entire being.  It makes his very spirit _sing_ to a music that is as transcendent as the universe and as ancient as the stars themselves—and Archie thought he already knew what love was before, but he was _wrong_ , because it is _this_ :

His body and soul, responding as one; the human and the divine coalescing in blissful _gratitude_ for the man in his arms.  It is dying and being reborn at the same time, and _this is what a supernova must feel like,_ Archie thinks breathlessly.

He isn’t sure who pulled away first as the necessity for air makes itself terribly known, and never before has Archie _hated_ the basic requirement to _breathe_.

“ _David_ ,” Cook says hoarsely, and it sounds like he’s falling, too.

“I am not going to Heaven,” Archie declares softly, and he shakes his head at the mistaken _guilt_ that flashes in Cook’s eyes.  He cups the older man’s face in both hands.

“I am not going to Heaven,” Archie repeats meaningfully, because _nothing_ has ever been as _crystal clear_ to him as this:  “Because I’d rather have my own piece of Heaven here with you.”

Cook goes absolutely still.

“I wouldn’t deserve it,” Archie murmurs, “but if you’d let me, I would never stop trying everyday… until I do.”  

And Archie thinks dazedly: _this must be the law of gravity,_ the way Cook can’t help but fall back onto Archie’s lips again… and again… _and again._

Somehow, Cook has rolled them over so that Archie is now the one lying beneath him, their hips slotted together in a way that makes the urgency of their bodies blatantly known. Cook, however, seems to be in no hurry, as he gazes down at Archie in the most unusual way, as if—

As if Archie is a _miracle._

“Do you know,” Cook finally speaks, his voice cracked and broken, “you’re starting to make me believe that a God exists, somehow.”

“Oh?”  Archie caresses Cook’s face distractedly.  “How so?”

“You know how in every religion, there’s always a higher power coming down from heaven to save a sinner on earth?”  Cook closes his eyes and turns his head to press a kiss in the centre of Archie’s palm, making Archie shiver and curl his fingers inward in response.  “Someone up there must have sent you, because last night… you’ve just been that saviour, to _me_.”

Archie isn’t sure if Cook is talking about the concert and their encore, or this moment and _them_ —he only knows for certain that Cook wasn’t the only one who was saved that night.  He tilts his head and, with a growing smile he’s helpless to stop, muses out loud:

“Number fourteen.”

Cook’s eyes fly open at the odd non-sequitur.  “What?”

“I just remembered something I’ve learned in Bible class before.  Um.  About numerology?”

“Archie,” Cook says fondly as their foreheads touch, “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh!  It’s just, the number fourteen is significant in the Bible because it represents salvation, just like, um.  Just like you said?  Also, it’s a multiple of seven, and it’s funny because we met during season seven of _Idol_ , and in the Bible the number seven represents completion and perfection, so twice the number seven means—”

“—twice the perfection,” says Cook in amusement, and _gosh_ , they’re finishing each other’s sentences already?  “And speaking of doubles on _Idol,_ what does the Bible say, then, about two Davids?”

“Um… I don’t know about _two_ Davids, but in Hebrew the name means—”

The rest of his sentence is swallowed by Cook’s mouth as Archie’s lips are captured in a lingering, searing kiss, and… _what are they talking about again?_

Cook pulls back ever so slowly, his lips curving into a self-satisfied smirk.  “The name means?” he prompts.

“It means…” Archie breathes, looks at Cook, and says without hesitation:  “ _Beloved.”_

Cook smiles at that. “So you and I met in a season of perfection, doubled into salvation, because we are both beloved.  That’s what the number fourteen means?”

“Um.  Yes?”

Cook grins. “Good to know.”

They fall back into each other, and it’s Archie who initiates the kiss this time, the press of his lips over Cook’s becoming firmer, more insistent.  He opens his mouth and runs his tongue over the seam of Cook’s lips, nibbling and biting with each wet suction.

 _Let me in,_ Archie wordlessly begs, seeking permission to enter Cook’s mouth, his body, his heart, his _life_.  

_Let me in… and don’t ever let me go._

The first brush of Archie’s tongue along the seam of his lips sends a shiver coursing up Cook’s spine; for a moment he’s too stunned to act, caught off guard by the fleeting, searing touch. The following press of Archie’s teeth to his full bottom lip is his undoing, and Cook surrenders, breathless and wanting, to Archie’s feverish touch.

He parts his lips for Archie’s questing tongue, groaning as the plump pink muscle pushes through and twines sensuously with his own, running along the flat line of his teeth and curling into his open, panting mouth.

This is _perfection_ , Cook thinks – the sensation of Archie’s soft, moist lips against his own, his long fingers twining in Cook’s messy hair, the raspy mewls and whimpers that escape whenever they part for a heated breath. This is what it is to be cherished, to be _beloved_.

Arch is so warm underneath him, their chests and bellies flush against each other, their hips and thighs slotted together like puzzle pieces. Cook can’t stop himself from touching, not with Archie spread out like a fucking gift beneath him, beautiful in the uninhibited arch of his back off the hotel sheets, the toss of his head as Cook tears himself away from Arch’s plump, red mouth, only to curve his lips around the jut of Archie’s collarbone, visible by the drooping collar of his t-shirt. For a moment he’s content to remain there, nibbling and sucking, curling the flat of his tongue against Archie’s skin, tasting salt and sweat and the faint trace of hotel soap. He’s hard within the cradle of Archie’s thighs, can feel Archie’s own reaction to their intimate touch against his stomach, but there’s no urgency to his movements, no hurry. He could stay here, like this, for _days_.

“Cook… “ The soft exhalation of his name blazes through Cook’s body like wildfire, sizzling along his nerves and bursting to life in his chest, his cheeks, his groin. He pulls away from Archie’s skin to survey his handiwork, and feels satisfaction spark to life in his chest at the dark purpling mark against the boy’s smooth skin. Arch’s breath is coming hard and fast, his eyes hooded, glazed with such a depth of want and love and _desire_ that it takes Cook’s breath away, and as Archie curves his hands against Cook’s chest, fingers tangling in his t-shirt, Cook thinks, _You have me. I’m yours_.

“God, Archie,” Cook breathes, his own voice hoarse as the gravity of their embrace, of where they’re headed, suddenly crashes down around him. Never before has he felt the truth of his own words more than in this moment: _I can’t remember ever falling this hard_. He wants Archie to be the one to lead him to the edge, to carry him down, to make him feel whole again.

He tries to tell Archie this, curling his fingers around the boy’s warm cheek in a gentle hold, but the lump forming in his throat prevents the words from escaping. The tears have no such qualms, however, and he feels them brimming hotly in his eyes, rolling down his cheeks as he gazes at the soft-spoken, beautiful, _beloved_ boy underneath him, the boy that has been his unfailing support for months now, his friend, his confidant – the boy that, against all odds, against all reason, _loves_ him, and trusts him enough to be here now, in Cook’s bed, in Cook’s arms, unafraid, unashamed.

Archie makes a soft noise at the sight of his tears, reaching up to draw Cook down into the warm circle of his arms. Cook goes without a fight, feeling weak with wonder and gratitude as he settles against Archie’s chest, feeling the strength of Arch’s arms as one wraps around his waist, the other curling against his shoulder so that Archie can shift his fingers through Cook’s hair.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, soft against the shell of Cook’s ear, and Cook feels the truth of those words down to his very core. “I’ve got you.” His lips press sweetly against Cook’s cheek, the bridge of his nose, the sweep of his brow, and, finally, his lips, and soon they’re falling back into each other, trading hushed breath and soft, lingering kisses, the rustle of their clothing and the bed sheets mixing with the slick wet sound of their lips meeting, parting, and reuniting once again, a melody of want and desire, their sighs the harmony, their names and hushed entreaties for more the lyrics to a song that they’ve been writing for months now.

They wind up on their sides, limbs entwined, and Cook could spend the entire day, the entire _week_ like this, with Archie tucked up close and warm, his nails scratching lightly through Cook’s beard, blushing whenever Cook catches his fingers and presses the tips to his mouth.

“Can we stay like this?” he asks, his voice soft, lips curled into a sated, almost sleepy smile.

Cook presses a last, lingering kiss to the tips of Archie’s fingers, curling his own around them and tucking their hands, clasped together, into the space between their bodies.

“You bet,” he says, settling his head on the pillow they’d shared the night before, his brow tucked against Archie’s.  He knows they should probably talk – about where this is going, what they’ll do once their time in Manila comes to an end. They only have a few more days before they return to the states, and after that… Well, they’ll figure it out. Together.

 _After all_ , Cook thinks, squeezing Archie’s hand and relishing in his brilliant, beaming smile, _this is only the beginning_.

**Author's Note:**

> ... And it is. Hopefully, as the possibility of a sequel is on the horizon.
> 
> (Their story seems to have no end in sight, after all.)


End file.
